


Friend

by FlameEmber



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Extreme bullying, Gen, ishimaru's classmates suck, ishimondo friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameEmber/pseuds/FlameEmber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Kiyotaka Ishimaru, and you never thought you'd even have one friend to call your own.</p><p>*if talk of bullying bothers you, please do not read!!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friend

**Author's Note:**

> ishimaru is my tiny baby why do I do this to him
> 
> also I tried a new writing style how is it
> 
> extreme warnings for bullying

You're naught but a child, and yet you utterly despise yourself, cursing the name you were born with.

\-------------------------------

You sniffle loudly, curling your body into a ball inside an empty classroom. The other students hate you almost as much as you hate yourself, and you can never seem to escape their torment.

You wish you could rip these godforsaken crimson eyes right out of your skull.

You've only been at school a few days, and yet cruelties upon cruelties have been done to you. Red is evidently an unacceptable eye color to possess, and you've done nothing but suffer for it.

_Freak!_

_Reject!_

_Demon!_

Hearing your bullies dash through the corridor, undoubtedly searching for you - a tiny portion of you yearns to yell at them for running - you tuck your head into your knees, hiding beneath the teacher's podium. You hope they leave soon enough; you'll have to come up with another convincing lie to your parents, both concerning why you're late returning home _and_ why your schoolbag is sodden. 

You're not going to tell them it's toilet water your bag has been doused in.

\-------------------------------

"Give it back!" you order in an authoritative tone, arms rigid by your sides as if you are a kindergarten military officer. The boy before you only sneers.

"What're ya gonna do 'bout it, nerd?" He holds your history project - your project, which you've worked diligently on for months! - aloft in the air, waving it around as if it is some sort of flag.

"Give it back!" you repeat, holding your chin high as you hold out your hand expectantly. Disputes must be solved through communication, not violence, you repeat to yourself.  


To your chagrin and absolute dismay, he begins to rip the top corner of your precious project slowly, grinning all the way.

The next thing you know, you've launched yourself at him, the only thoughts in your mind not of violence, but of getting your project back in a salvageable condition. But before you know it, you're being held back by one of the other students, his arm locked tightly around your waist as you flail, tears flying from your apparently _demonic_ eyes.

But that all changes when the first student, with an evil glint in his eye, tears your project entirely in two, letting the bisected halves fall to the ground as the other student drops you.

You land hard on your knees as they walk away, leaving you alone with nothing but your tears and your ruined work for company.

\-------------------------------

You're on the floor. 

You're on the floor, and you were just at the top of the stairs.

You're on the floor, and everything hurts, and you're bleeding.

Your wrist aches more than anything else as you cry out in pain, rushing to collect all your scattered paperwork before anyone can stomp on it, steal it, or otherwise destroy it.

You pull up your shirt, not surprised to see dark purple blotches already beginning to form. You're sure similar bruises must be all over the rest of your body as well.

Your head hurts, and even you have enough sense to realize you need to get to the infirmary. So you stagger to your feet, clutching your bag under your arm, and limp away.

You stay remarkably silent as the school nurse bandages your wrist, telling you it's nothing but a sprain. She appears worried, and opens her mouth as if to say something, but closes it again. You're only nine, after all, and she does not wish for you to become upset. She will have a word with your parents later, to let them know what she suspects may be going on.

When you get home that night, you tell your parents you slipped. You must be very accident-prone, they tell you.

You didn't slip.

\-------------------------------

You're standing in front of the lockers in the boys' room after gym class, all gangly limbs and awkward posture, shivering in the cold with only a too-small tank top and an inadequate pair of shorts to cover you. You're not even a teenager yet, but almost, and you suppose this must be the ultimate embarrassment. 

They've hidden your clothes, your _uniform_ , your dignity - stashed them god-knows-where to be thrown out, to be nibbled by rodents, to be found crawling with insects and covered in assorted liquids in the morning, to be shredded and completely rendered useless.

They jeer loudly, spitballs and small pebbles bouncing off your _pathetic_ and nearly naked form, shoving you into the row of lockers repeatedly until you fall to your knees bruised, curling into a ball as you rue the day you were ever born an Ishimaru.

"Hey!"

The voice cuts through your hazy consciousness like a knife; you can't help but glance up in curiosity.

You've never seen this kid before, at least you don't think you have. No, you think, you _have_ seen him; he's the one who's barely ever in class, even at the tender age of twelve, when education is vital. He's chasing after them now, after your bullies, too-large black coat flapping behind him as if he is some sort of a bat. 

But is he doing this for _you?_

You shift yourself into a seated position, still with your arms clamped tightly around your knees, watching - observing - this strange other boy who has juxtaposed himself, incorporated himself into the scene.

Having chased away your tormentors, he draws close now, and you notice he's larger than you are, muscles not huge but definitely more defined, build lean. 

"Ya alright?" he mutters softly; his shaggy mop of dyed blond bangs (which looks suspiciously as if he's cut it himself, and with blunt scissors no less) falls over his light lavender eyes as he bends to stoop to your level.

He looks rough, the sort of hooligan you've always been warned about, but he's just helped you, and he should not even deign to speak to you.

You sniffle slightly as you nod shakily, shivering from exposure and embarrassment and shame as the strange boy helps you to your feet. His hands are rough, but different from those of your antagonists. 

He takes a seat on the bench beside you; the momentary silence leaves you lost once more.

"Mondo." 

Startled by the voice, you glance upwards hurriedly to be greeted with the sight of a palm directly in your field of vision. Your questioning crimson eyes turn to look at him in puzzlement, as if unsure what to do. 

With an odd head movement, he gesticulates toward his hand.

"My name. Mondo. Mondo Oowada."

Cautiously, you take the proffered hand, moving your arm up and down in some strange facsimile of a handshake.

"Kiyotaka Ishimaru." You mutter your name softly and in shame, fearing that the boy - Mondo - will take off running upon hearing your last name, or worse still, join the ever-growing throng of your bullies.

To your surprise, he simply nods.

"That's that old prime minister's name, right? Ishimaru? He your grandpa or somethin'?"

You can only find the courage to nod lifelessly.

"Damn. That sucks."

Another impassive, apathetic, absolutely _indifferent_ nod.

"Why do they do all that shit to ya?"

You shrug, although you know the answer all too well.

"Because of my grandfather."

"Oh."

He falls silent; you're sure that, despite appearing ignorant, somewhere in his brain he _must_ know _something_ about your grandfather's scandal.

"That's terrible, ya know? It ain't somethin' ya can do anythin' about!"

You're shocked by his - a _stranger's!_ \- show of support, but simply nod with another apathetic shrug.

Before you know what's happening, though, he's placed his expansive coat over your shoulders; you cuddle into the warmth almost subconsciously, fingers curling around the edges of the fabric as you peer up at him with curious ruby eyes that have been called "demonic" so many times.

"'M brother's coat. Sorry." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, as if his actions require some sort of explanation. You shake your head softly, for what feels like the millionth time.

It's been an eon since you recall smiling at school, but there you are, corners of your thin lips curling upward.

"Thank you, Oowada-kun."

He stands suddenly.

"Ya know what? 'M gonna go get yer clothes back! Ya ain't gotta worry!"

And as soon as he appeared, he's gone, leaving you in silence, bundling yourself into his brother's coat for warmth.

Perhaps he won't come back; perhaps you're simply deluding yourself.

But no matter what,

Mondo Oowada is still

Your _only friend._

\-------------------------------

You're naught but a teenager now, and yet you've been taught by your peers that you deserve to be beaten upon making even the simplest of mistakes. But you now embrace the name you were born with, and strive to restore its honor no matter the cost.


End file.
